There's Always Next Year, Part 1

In his book Keeping it Real: Everything You Need to Know About Researching and Writing Creative Nonfiction, Lee Gutkind describes the genre as “the use of literary craft in presenting nonfiction – that is, factually accurate prose about real people and events – in a compelling, vivid manner.” So suffice to say, the following tale did happen, but maybe not as elaborate as I portray it here. To me, it couldn’t have happened any other way.

I originally wrote this for my creative nonfiction course in the fall of 2012, one of the eight required online classes that would eventually lead to my master’s degree. It took the whole seven weeks of the course to write and rewrite, and I enjoyed rekindling all of the unforgettable memories. I haven’t revisited it since or really have shared it with any type of audience until now. So I figured what better time than the tenth anniversary of the Boston Red Sox broking the curse and winning the 2004 World Series.

You have to understand that to me and my family, the Red Sox are more than just a sports team. They’re a way of life. As you will see in the following story, the Sox did more than just win a championship in the fall of 2004. They bonded generations of fans and families like mine that was so used to losing for decades. Many fans like my grandfather lived their whole lives and never saw what we witnessed that October. It still gives me goose bumps just thinking about it.

But this tale doesn’t begin in 2004, but in the fall of 2003. Due to its length, I will post the story is segments over the course of the next several days. I hope Red Sox fans can relive some of their own special memories of one of my favorite sports teams of all time. For everyone else, I hope you keep coming back to see what happens next. Enjoy.

"There's Always Next Year"

Thursday, October 16, 2003

I stood staring at the television above my head, clutching a beer in my right hand. The bar was packed to the gills, filled with revelers that were all there for the same purpose. There wasn’t a seat to be found, and even if I wanted to sit down, I don’t think I could have. I was too antsy to sit. Being short helped me blend in with the crowd, and tonight I didn’t mind going unnoticed.

My buddies Jeff and J.M. were out with me on this particular Thursday night. It was Game 7 of the American League Championship Series. My beloved Boston Red Sox had battled through six games with their division rival, the New York Yankees, to end up here. The winner would take the American League pennant and move on to the World Series. The loser would go home.

But this was more than just another game for most Red Sox fans. This was an undertaking that had been going on for the past eight seasons. Since 1996, the New York Yankees had won seven division titles and four World Series championships. The Red Sox had finished second in the division standings to the Yankees since 1998, even suffering a humbling defeat in the 1999 American League Championship Series, where the Yankees beat the Red Sox four games to one. To many, including myself, this wasn’t even considered a rivalry. This was a one sided degradation that we as Red Sox fans had to watch and suffer through year after year. At this point in a decisive seventh game, I had a feeling that both teams finally appeared on even ground.

One must first understand that I was no stranger to the Red Sox’s torrid history. My father, a life-long Red Sox fan who introduced me to this cruel and torturous culture, has owned season tickets since 1972. Some of my earliest memories are attending games with him in the early 1980s. I remember routing for my favorite players when I was a kid: Wade Boggs, Jim Rice, Dwight Evans and even Roger Clemens. My dad’s tickets were in the front row on the third base side, close to the visiting team’s dugout and next to the press box. Going to Fenway and sitting in those seats was second nature to me. We had a great vantage point of the field and the game, and as I grew older I became appreciative of how fortunate I was to have such great seats.

My first recollection of humiliation that my father had suffered for many years came in 1986, during the now famous Game 6 of the World Series against the New York Mets. My parents, my brother and I had gone to a friend’s house to watch the game. Being nine years old at the time, I made the mistake of lying down in front of the television and stretching out on the floor, and eventually I fell asleep. My father woke me up to watch the bottom of the tenth inning with the Red Sox leading 5-3. The Sox got two quick outs, and they were one out away from their first World Series title in sixty-eight years. My father wanted me to witness what had eluded him his whole life. Everyone in that living room, and all around New England, were ready to celebrate. Red Sox pitcher Bruce Hurst was already being named the series’ most valuable player. The television showed the scoreboard at Shea Stadium, which was congratulating the Red Sox as World Series Champions.

Every Red Sox fan who was alive to remember can tell you what happened next. The Mets hit three straight singles, followed by Bob Stanley’s wild pitch and the infamous error that rolled through Bill Buckner’s legs, leading the Mets to score three runs and win the game 6-3. The Red Sox would go on to lose game seven and the World Series. I don’t think I heard my father scream as loud as he did that night, sitting on the edge of his seat the whole time. He led the verbal attack on the television while the collapse took place, like it was the television’s fault. I think I might have had a minor heart attack at the age of nine.

 Standing in the bar almost twenty years later, I tried not to dwell on those memories. Tonight all my focus was on the game. We found our way to Coogan’s right outside Faneuil Hall near Boston’s Financial District. It was a typical Irish bar that served normal pub fare, with plenty of beer to keep the patrons happy. It was a fairly good sized bar and the lights were dim. Pictures and beer signs lined the walls, and many of the tables had been cleared out to make more room for standing patrons. Overall I was enjoying the vibe in the bar tonight. There was a steady level of noise throughout the game that would grow earsplitting when fans cheered in unison from the runs the Sox scored in the second, fourth and eighth innings to build a fairly comfortable 5-2 lead.

At this point I had developed a steady buzz on the beer, helping to alleviate the stress of watching the Sox grind through seven and a half innings. The team’s ace, Pedro Martinez, had pitched a solid game so far, allowing only two runs on six hits. But if there’s one thing that I learned from my years of being a Red Sox fan it was to never get comfortable. The Sox had the tendency to build your hopes up and then tear your heart out the next minute. In big games like this I couldn’t relax until the final out of the game was made.

With one out in the inning, the Yankees’ shortstop and team captain, Derek Jeter, came up to bat and hit a double to right field. This was followed by Bernie Williams lining a single to center field, which allowed Jeter to score. Yankees now trailed 5-3, and I might have had my second minor heart attack at the age of twenty-six.

At this point Red Sox manager Grady Little made his way to the pitcher’s mound, and I breathed a brief sigh of relief. Pedro pitched a great game, but at over one hundred pitches, it was time to hand it over to the Red Sox bullpen. Red Sox reliever Alan Embree was warming up and ready to come into the game. Instead, after a brief talk with Pedro, Grady gave him a pat on the back and headed back to the dugout.

“What’s he doing?” I said under my breath to no one in particular.

“Why is he leaving him in the game?” I raised my voice even louder to anyone that would listen. 

“WHY IS HE LEAVING HIM IN THE GAME??!!??” I said one last time, hoping somebody could explain to me what I was witnessing on the screen.

At that moment all of my impending fears came true. The Yankees hit two straight doubles and scored two more runs, tying the game at five. The entire bar could only watch in disbelief. The game was now going into extra innings, and I was almost certain how it was going to end. The Yankees’ Aaron Boone confirmed the notion I was feeling in my gut. In the bottom of the eleventh inning, he hit the first pitch he saw down the left field line for a home run. The Yankees won the game 6-5 and took the American League Pennant with them to the World Series.

We left the bar shortly thereafter and made our way through Faneuil Hall, speechless to what we just witnessed. I felt like I had been punched square in the stomach. The loss resonated in the air, along with the smell of late night street vendors selling sausages and steak tips. We questioned each other and cursed Grady Little for leaving Pedro in the game. What was going through his mind? Could he not see Pedro was tired? Throughout the whole series, Little had consistently gone to his bullpen, especially to relievers Mike Timlin and Alan Embree, in the late innings. Why didn’t he stick with the same successful formula? Why, why, why? All we could do was ask the unanswerable questions and ponder what possibly could have been. At some point I muttered the saying that had become familiar with Red Sox fans for decades.

“Well, there’s always next year….”

January, 2004

I was at work like any other day. With the holidays just passing, things were relatively quiet around Boston University. I worked in the lending department at the local credit union on campus, and the flurry of loan applications had quieted down significantly since before Christmas. Members were still looking for money, but not as much as they needed for holiday shopping.

Much time had passed since Game 7 and the wounds were beginning to heal, but it was still a lingering memory. My father would be going to Fenway to turn in his order form to renew his season tickets with Spring Training about a month away. He was the president of the credit union, and we had the convenience of occupying an office relatively close to the ball park.

My dad happened to be in Venice, Florida on October 16, 2003 for Game 7. Venice is a quiet town on the Gulf Coast just south of Sarasota, where his brother Ray had moved in 1986. During the winter months it hosted many people from Massachusetts escaping the cold New England winter. For these older travelers, Venice is a great place to kick back and relax for a few months, and my dad enjoyed making trips there to visit his younger brother.

My father was watching the game with Ray and my cousin, Josh. Ray was a Red Sox and baseball junkie, and his living room was filled with baseball memorabilia and pictures of old Red Sox players. As soon as Boone hit the home run, Ray stormed off to his bedroom, not even seeing the ball land in the left field stands.  He wasn’t seen for the rest of the evening. The phone rang a few minutes later. It was Josh’s sister calling from Massachusetts, crying into the phone. Josh tried to console her, telling her it was only a game. For my dad, this was another crushing defeat in a long line of losing and embarrassment, going back many years.  For a younger fan like Josh, he finally joined a club of cynical Red Sox fans like his father and uncle, and Boone’s homer was his admission. But even the devastating loss would not discourage my dad from renewing his tickets. The thought of giving them up never entered his mind.

My father has owned his tickets since 1972. When he first approached the Red Sox about purchasing season tickets, they allowed him to visit the ballpark and personally pick out his seats. The ticket package that he owned originally began as only Sundays, opening day and holidays, such as Marathon Monday on Boston’s Patriots day every April. He eventually expanded this package to full weekends, now incorporating Saturday games.

My dad’s memories and suffering of being a Red Sox fan went back to his childhood. My late grandfather, who never witnessed the team win the World Series in seventy eight years, influenced my dad in the game of baseball and the Boston Red Sox. My dad was nineteen and stationed in Vietnam in the fall of 1967 when his sister sent him a care package of press clippings, all on the Red Sox Impossible Dream season. He was in attendance in Game 6 of the World Series in 1975 and witnessed Carlton Fisk’s monumental home run down the left field line, only to return to Fenway the following night to see the Red Sox lose the decisive Game 7 to the Cincinnati Reds.

The losing ways continued in 1978 when I was only a year old. The Red Sox squandered a fourteen game lead in the American League East to the New York Yankees that was highlighted by the “Boston Massacre”, a four game sweep by the Yankees at Fenway that would tie both teams on top of the standings. The teams would face off in a one game playoff for the division on October 2nd, and Bucky Dent’s three-run home run that barely reached over Fenway’s Green Monster put the final nail in the coffin of the Red Sox season. Then there was 1986. Aaron Boone’s home run was just another reminder of these torrid memories.

Although my dad was always hopeful about his team, he felt there was always the same mindset amongst fans. How will the Red Sox find a way to lose this time? Will the team always be losers? Will this year finally be the year? It always seemed to be the case, no matter what the situation. After eighty-five years of losing, he couldn’t help feel this way about the Red Sox. This was an attitude that I was also lucky to inherit.

My father also didn’t believe in the so-called Curse of the Bambino, the stigma hanging over the organization since it sold its prized player, Babe Ruth, to the New York Yankees after the Red Sox won the World Series in 1918. The Babe would go on the be one of greatest players that ever lived and the Yankees became one the most successful team in all of sports, winning twenty-seven World Series titles. Since the Red Sox sold Ruth, they had not won a World Series, accentuated by a string of bad luck and by some monumental collapses and losses. The story of the Curse was even publicized in a book by local Boston sportswriter, Dan Shaughnessy. My dad felt that Shaughnessy secretly rooted for the Sox to lose, just so the theory in his book would hold up. This was also an opinion that strongly rubbed off on me.

A lot had happened over the winter for the Red Sox, leading me with a sense of optimism for the new season. The team had hired a new manager, after deciding not to renew Grady Little’s contract. The Red Sox announced in early December they were going to hire Terry Francona, just a week after they had made a trade for Arizona Diamondback’s pitcher Curt Schilling.

Schilling played a big part of the Diamondbacks team that won the World Series in 2001, sharing the Most Valuable Player honors with fellow pitcher Randy Johnson. He was considered a big game pitcher, and was exactly what the Red Sox needed. Schilling played under Francona in Philadelphia from 1997 through 2000, and many members of the Boston media speculated that Schilling would come to Boston only if the team hired Francona.

Personally, I loved the trade for Schilling. He was a perfect complement to Pedro Martinez in the rotation, and I felt the Sox placed themselves as the frontrunners to win the American League East Division. I didn’t know much about Francona though, only that he didn’t have a great track record in Philadelphia. There were other candidates for the position, such as Los Angeles third-base coach Glenn Hoffman and Anaheim bench coach Joel Madden. I only knew Hoffman from his playing days with the Sox in the early 80s. I was leaning with the media, and thought that Francona was hired to appease Schilling. I guess only time would tell how Francona would do.

On this particular day in January, my dad came down from his upstairs office and approached me at my desk.

“I’m heading up to the park,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I responded mockingly.

“Yes I’m sure. Do you want to go for a ride and grab some lunch?” I agreed.

We exited out of the back of the building to the small lot where his car was parked. It was at least a ten minute walk to Fenway, and on a January day in Boston, we were not going to fight the cold. We drove through the area of B.U. known as South Campus, mostly made up of dorms right off Beacon Street that bordered the town of Brookline. Since it was winter break and there were no students around, the campus was quiet.

While in the car my dad enjoyed listening to the local sports talk radio, which at one point I listened to religiously. Over time I would grow angry and frustrated with many of the fans that would call in to express their opinions, and eventually I just gave up and couldn’t listen anymore. The hot topic right now was the New England Patriots, who were about to begin the playoffs and make a run at another Super Bowl. I was just glad the conversation had moved away from the Red Sox and their decision to hire Terry Francona. The media was already burying the guy for his lack of success in Philadelphia, and he hadn’t even managed a game in Boston yet. Neither one of us couldn’t stand the pessimism that made up the Boston sports media, but for some reason my dad still subjected himself to the geniuses on the radio. 

We soon reached Fenway and made our way to the ticket office. As we drew closer to the park, I felt a little of the anticipation of the coming season, even in the frigid temperatures of a Massachusetts winter. For me it was more than just being a Red Sox fan, but the return of the game of baseball. It was something I looked forward to every spring, and this year would be no different.